Jane and the Damned by Janet Mullany Page A

come to help.”
    “What is happening elsewhere in the town, sir?”
    “The French marched from Bristol, and the militia fight to hold the bridge and the roads against them. We had word they were coming along the London Road too, so that‧s where we are bound.”
    They passed Walcot Church and turned right onto the London Road. Ahead of them a bonfire burned in the streets, and a crowd of people moved, dark against the red glow. Two men emerged from a house, dragging a heavy, old-fashioned table between them toward a barrier some six feet high across the street, constructed of furniture, pieces of wood, and flagstones. Jane ran forward to help them as they upended the table onto two legs and attempted to hoist it onto the barricade. She could have laughed at their expressions of astonishment as she grabbed the blackened oak and hauled it up. She clambered aloft and peered cautiously over the edge.
    “Any sign of them, miss?”
    “Not yet.” She climbed over and dropped down to the other side. Walking farther up the road, she listened carefully, then dropped to a crouch and laid her bare hand on the ground to get a better sense of the faint tremor she had detected. Yes, men and horses, and something iron and heavy that lurched along the road—it had to be a cannon.
    She ran back, and climbed over the barricade. “I can‧t tell how far off they are, but they bring artillery.”
    “I suppose they‧re not ours?” someone asked.
    Jane shook her head. “I don‧t know, but they‧re probably not far off. We‧ll know soon enough.”
    Mr. Thomas shook his head, staring at the barricade. “They‧ll reduce this to splinters.”
    “Then take cover and attack them after they come through,” Jane said, astonished by her own decisiveness—telling grownmen what to do, or, for that matter, telling anyone what to do, although her mother frequently complained of her willful nature. “Fire your weapons and then run before they can fire the cannon again, for the best we can do is delay them and maybe kill a few.”
    “True enough,” Mr. Thomas said. “We have some muskets, but not enough for everyone.”
    “Cobblestones!” someone shouted, and the crowd tore at the surface of the street.
    “And now we wait,” the apothecary said. The crowd positioned themselves in the steps leading to the servants’ quarters, silent, muskets loaded, handfuls of cobblestones at the ready.
    Jane listened. From far off down the road came the orderly clop of horses’ hooves moving at a quick trot, the squeak and rumble of the gun carriage, the jingle of harness and weapons. She watched the faces of those around her and observed that they too heard the sounds. A command to halt rang out. She imagined what they saw—the makeshift barrier with the glow of the bonfire behind it.
    “In the name of the Republic, citizens, lay down your arms!”
    “Damned Frenchies, excuse me, ma‧am,” the apothecary muttered. His spectacles glinted red, reflecting the flames of the bonfire. He bit his lip. “Do they know we‧re here, do you think?”
    “I don‧t know. They‧ll expect an ambush.”
    She listened, hearing whispered orders and the scratch of a tinderbox, precise metallic sounds and the creak of the gun carriage; the quiet sounds of a well-trained cavalry unit waiting to attack. She rose and gestured to the waiting townspeople to keep down, then sank down to her former position.
    A deafening bang burst the barricade into pieces, scattering debris over the road. Paving stones and pieces of wood flew through the air and smashed to the ground, with coals from the bonfire scattered throughout. From a cloud of smoke the Frenchcavalry emerged, negotiating rubble and flames, to encounter a hail of musket fire and cobblestones as the townspeople emerged from hiding.
    “Got you!” the apothecary crowed as a soldier fell from his mount, and pulled another musket ball from the pouch at his belt.
    Beside him Jane hurled cobblestones—Edward would